


Dream Awake

by AeeDee



Series: The Miracle [1]
Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill from the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/tronkinkmeme/">Tron kink meme</a>, a request for an angst!fic about one-sided love.  It can function as a prequel to the 'Miracle' series, but it's a depressing read so that choice is yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Awake

Three months, and fourteen days. That’s how long he’s endured it. That’s how long he’s gritted his teeth, lived off headache medication, slept alone, and dreaded every minute in that man’s presence. He memorized the days because each one seemed so long, each new day feeling several minutes and hours longer than the one before.

It wasn’t easy or practical to live that way. But in those days, all he had was his Ducati, and a small dog named Marv. But that dog was more so his kid than anything; he was an adorable little monster, but he was no substitute for a real, breathing, live human being. Sam would sometimes hug him until he fell asleep, but he didn’t cure his loneliness. He didn’t make the nights seem any shorter, or keep the nightmares at bay.

Awful dreams consumed by the thoughts of that man, and all the things he would never be. Pleasant visions and beautiful moments that made him feel sick and pained whenever he’d wake up. All those experiences, none of them real. They were nightmares in feeling, because life itself could never measure up to them. These perfect memories would never exist. The man in those images, that kissed him and held his hand would never do so in actual life. He would never feel that touch, or the warmth of his body; he’d never know if what he was imagining was anywhere close to reality. He’d never know what it was really like to wake up beside him in the morning, because every time he woke up it was to the same, empty bed. Even Marv would sometimes take off by then, leaving behind an empty space in his arms where a person should be.

These days, Sam Flynn was not a happy man. He hadn’t ever been truly happy, but he wanted, at the very least, to be content. And for a time, he was.

Before he spent those weekends and summer days with Alan Bradley and his family. Before he was old enough to realize he was gay. Before he was experienced enough to know that no man could ever satisfy him, or distract him from the person he genuinely wanted. Sam Flynn had spent many years in naïve bliss, imagining that the warmth he felt in his heart for Alan was alike to the affection you should have for a father figure. But then he grew older, and his chest started to throb and his body started to ache uncontrollably.

He remembered the first fantasy, that snuck up on him when he was in the shower. Alan had just left, only moments before. But he was consumed by thoughts of him. Of his hair, of his glasses, of his shirt and the way he imagined his chest to look beneath it. Of his kind eyes, and his gentle, considerate mouth. Of his soft-spoken words and his precise way of behaving. Of his polite gestures and his smooth pant legs. His polished shoes and the question of what the leather tasted like. The question of how he’d react if they were to be slipped off, and those feet caressed instead…

And when he thought of touching him there, the thoughts traveled. Up the man’s body, to obscene places. Sliding a hand in his pants, unbuckling his belt and undoing the zipper to view the bulge hidden behind there. Caressing his penis, wondering how long it’d take for him to get hard. Wondering how his skin would feel, and whether or not it was as smooth as his own, or dramatically different, hotter to the touch and perhaps more swollen...

In that shower, Sam had found his mind racing, and his chest pounding. His head spinning, his breathing heavy, as his hands were moving before he could control it. It wasn’t just a want, it was a need. If he couldn’t live his erotic vision, the second-best option was to touch himself. Pretending that body part belonged to Alan, wondering what he’d say, what expression of shock would come across his face…

That evening, Sam had jacked himself raw. He came and came, until there was nothing left but a small dribble of cum leaking out. He even tried to go again, but he was sore and he ached and he was so completely unfulfilled that he just wanted to cry instead of try it again. Because it wasn’t enough. Sex by himself would never be enough, because he wanted that man and there was nothing, and no one in the entire goddamn world that could replace him.

It was a matter of weeks before he fucked someone else. It took him that time to admit defeat, and that yes, he was desperately lonely and yes, he needed a distraction. Alan had stopped by once since the shower incident, and the suffering had been unbearable. He’d sent him away as quickly as he could, appearing cold only because it hurt and stung so much to be around him, thinking of those visions, wanting to see that horrified face, wanting to upset and rattle him and touch him until Alan himself would come, right there where he insisted on sitting on the couch. He would come, and he would feel guilty or ashamed or downright upset, and Sam would kiss him anyway, kiss him and kiss him and touch him until he could make himself come, right over Alan’s chest, with his freshly ironed shirt and his proper jacket, right over that smooth fabric.

But that would never happen, so. He fucked someone else. He picked up a man at a bar, that was around Alan’s age. He even smelled the same, like a mildly expensive cologne, and he even wore glasses. But it took Sam one night to realize that he only liked that smell on Alan, and he hated glasses on anyone’s face but his. He didn’t like the feel of another man inside him, and he didn’t appreciate it when anyone else attempted to cuddle with him, or touch him tenderly, or kiss him like they were lovers. He did the deed, cleaned up politely and sent him on his way, before throwing away the man’s business card and returning to bed, picking up Marv and hugging him closely again to try and erase any memory of the incident.

When Alan came by the next week, it was all Sam could do to not break down in front of him. He wasn’t just lonely; he was exhausted. He ached, he hurt, he wasn’t sleeping well and he was angry at himself for not being able to find a solution to his problem. He didn’t know how to ease the hurt, much like how he hadn’t realized that sex could not solve a need for sex from a specific person, because that need was never about the physical lust in the first place. No, his need for a night with Alan Bradley came from a much deeper need. A need of the man’s love, a need for his touch to mean something more than kindness, a need for him to acknowledge and kiss and touch and hold him because he wanted to, because he also needed to, much like how Sam needed so badly to kiss and touch and hold him.

But that was not meant to be.

In the following days, that sadness turned to anger. He was frustrated; every night he’d try to find a new way to get himself off, anything that would feel as good as another man’s touch. He bought sex toys to slide over his penis, he tried humping homemade objects, he even bought a device that promised it felt like someone’s lips sucking you off. It really didn’t, but at least that felt better than his previous attempts. It was no Alan, but it cured the loneliness enough for him to sleep soundly for at least that night out of the week.

He considered finding another man, but one that was dramatically different. Maybe he needed a boy-toy, someone that was younger and bold like him, someone that would go skydiving and skiing and rock-climbing right there alongside him. Afterwards they could sneak off together for a quick round of sex in a public place, something exciting like a public bathroom with the door unlocked, or the middle row of a movie theatre, even with people able to hear them. It would be especially fun if said boy was also a biker, and owned a classic like a Ducati, because they could take cross-country trips together, or even go on drives across the city at midnight, shit no one else ever seemed to enjoy.

But then he considered what that man would feel like, his dick pulsating inside him. He considered what those fingers would feel like, gripping his cock so hard, squeezing it, tugging on it, twisting slightly, massaging the base, and stroking the underside. Stroking and rubbing as he continued to pound into him, thrusting his dick deeper and deeper, pushing harder and harder, so fast and rough that his entire body would rattle and shake on top of him. And he’d roll his eyes back, lost in the ecstasy, licking and sucking on his own fingers, chewing on the skin there to keep himself occupied so he wouldn’t lose it and come too soon.

But when he thought of that vision, he couldn’t shake the thought of Alan Bradley. He would become the man he was having sex with, pounding him into oblivion, and probably feeling some guilt over what he was doing. But the guilt would feed his lust, and his lust would fuel his arousal, and his dick would pulsate and throb and throb and when he’d come, he’d feel such a rush that he would tilt his head back and moan, a deep moan that would rumble through his body, like a stirring rhythm of music.

Sam wanted him so badly. He wanted him so badly; he was bored with fucking himself and refused to borrow someone else. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, madly in lust and love with a man that wasn’t gay, that wasn’t available, and that had only ever seen him as a foster son.

It wasn’t just lust, not at all. He wanted to cuddle with him, and to be held by him. He wanted to kiss him before he left his apartment, he wanted to hold his hand when he sat near him, he wanted to have the freedom to stroke his neck lovingly after fixing his tie, to run his hands across any inch of his body when he wanted, just to feel his warmth. Like a cat, he wanted to lounge against him, bathing in the feel of him, the scent that only smelled good on him, the background noise of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest.

He just wanted to _be_ with him, in every sense of the word. No more of this father figure bullshit.

-

One day, something inside Sam snaps.

Alan is standing there, slowly drinking a beer he’d been given. He hadn’t intended to stay for very long, but he wanted to be polite. So he obliged the boy, and promised to enjoy one drink with him. He didn’t know why Sam had offered, but it wasn’t the first time, anyway. All he’d received was a “You look like you need to relax, Alan,” comment and that was it.

“You know,” Alan is telling him, in an almost wistful tone, “Your father used to drink this same brand of beer. He had a way of offering this to me, after saying almost the same thing.”

“Yeah?” but he isn’t really listening. Sam is rising to his feet, setting down his beer on the table. And once up he’s quick to move.

“Yeah, it’s kind of amazing how ali-” he stops in his words and trails them off, as he turns to look at Sam in a kind of quiet awe. Sam isn’t doing anything too surprising, but what startles Alan is how close he is. Distractingly close, because just a moment ago, he was so far away, across the room…

Before Alan can say anything further, Sam moves in and kisses him square on the mouth.

He reciprocates it without wanting to. Their lips massage together in that instant, for an odd sensation that’s defined by discomfort and a startling gentleness. Sam’s lips are soft and warm, and it’s a feeling he doesn’t mind, but…

When Sam pulls back, his eyes are shifty and his voice is tense, “Alan?”

“What,” he’s speechless. He’s still reeling from what happened. He’s confused and bewildered. Lost and wondering what he should say. “Sam,” is about as much as he manages.

“I like you, Alan,” he quickly murmurs.

“Wha-” before he can complete that word, he’s being kissed again. And again, and again, a series of quick kisses with few interruptions and almost no pauses to breathe in between.

Alan doesn’t want to, but he feels compelled to slide an arm around him, out of habit. He presses a hand against Sam’s back as the boy embraces him, holding him tightly as he continues that lavishing of affection to his mouth, and then his face, as if he’d never kissed or tasted one before.

And against his better judgment, he initiates a kiss of his own. Just one, to see what it feels like. Just one, as he catches Sam’s mouth in motion, an act that startles him and causes all of his movements to cease. He melts around that kiss, pausing and almost collapsing in his arms. He leans against him, pressing their bodies together. The warmth of Sam’s body turns him on, against his will and common sense. The feel of something hard pressing against his groin, something that becomes more prominent as that kiss continues.

“Sam, we shouldn’t-” Alan starts.

“Please, Alan,” a soft, breathy whine, as he murmurs it into that kiss.

“Sam,” but immediate lust overrides his logic. And he parts his lips to invite Sam’s tongue into his mouth, and before he realizes the error of his ways they’re swapping spit and tasting each other.

He runs a hand up Sam’s spine, causing him to shake a little. He hadn’t ever realized the boy wanted him so badly… But what did he want, exactly? Alan wonders if he wants him specifically, or if he’s just horny for some unknown reason.

But surprisingly, the longer that kiss continues, the less opposed he feels to the idea of what’s going on. The more of Sam’s saliva he’s tasting and swallowing, the more natural it seems. The more he feels Sam’s heated rod pressing against his own, the more he feels that increasing heat eminating from his body, the less he feels like protesting. If anything, he becomes more open, more willing, and more receptive. He becomes curious, as his senses are awakened.

And when Sam begins to grind against him, he starts to lose his will to resist altogether. This feels too good to protest against. This feels too right, even if he knows it’s wrong. This feels too…

-

Sam is groaning, as he’s sprawled across his bed, resisting the urge to moan too loudly as he continues to work the lubricated dildo in and out of his asshole, gasping as he humps the coarse, and finely stitched pillow beneath him, elated at the friction as it stimulates nerves he’d long forgotten. He grinds against it until it hurts, and furiously continues to fuck himself as he finally emits a deep moan, one that rattles through his entire being. But he hasn’t come yet. He just had to continue for a little longer, to go on a tad more…

They just had to work for a little longer. Just a few more thrusts, just a few more kisses…

He starts to lick his hand, caressing the soft skin there and gently biting into it with his teeth.

“I love you, Alan,” he murmurs with his face pressed against the soft fabric of his bed, before he comes alone in that dark, silent room.

_I love you too, Sam._

But that’s just another delusion.


End file.
